The Last Chronicle of Barset (Unabridged): Victorian Classic from the prolific English novelist, known for The Palliser Novels, The Prime Minister, The ... Can You Forgive Her? and Phineas Finn…

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Anthony Trollope's The Last Chronicle Of Barset: "It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own ground. Land is about the only thing ... (The Chronicles Of Barsetshire) (Volume 6)

made to claim discount on every leg of mutton,' said the archdeacon.Arguing from which fact--or from which assertion, he came to theconclusion that no Barchester jury would find Mr Crawley guilty.

But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be well to trust to theunassisted friendship of the Barchester tradesmen. Mr Crawley must beprovided with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to himwhether he should be willing or unwilling to receive it. That therewould be a difficulty was acknowledged. Mr Crawley was known to be a mannot easy of persuasion, with a will of his own, with a great energy ofobstinacy on points which he chose to take as being of importance to hiscalling, or to his own professional status. He had pleaded his own causebefore the magistrates, and it might be that he would insist on doingthe same thing before the judge. At last Mr Robarts, the clergyman fromFramley, was deputed from the knot of Crawleian advocates assembled atLady Lufton's drawing-room, to undertake the duty of seeing Mr Crawley,and of explaining to him that his proper defence was regarded as amatter appertaining to the clergy and gentry generally of that part ofthe country, and that for the sake of the clergy and gentry the defencemust of course be properly conducted. In such circumstances the expenseof the defence would of course be borne by the clergy and gentryconcerned. It was thought that Mr Robarts could put the matter to MrCrawley with such a mixture of the strength of manly friendship and thesoftness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recogniseddifficulties of the task.

CHAPTER XI

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION

Tidings of Mr Crawley's fate reached the palace at Barchester on theafternoon of the day on which the magistrates had committed him. Allsuch tidings travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, anddistributed by indefatigable message boys whom Rumour seems to supplyfor the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road,and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether anyone was commissionedto send the news along the actual telegraph, and yet Mrs Proudie knew itbefore four o'clock. But she did not know it quite accurately. 'Bishop,'she said, standing at her husband's study door. 'They have committedthat man to gaol. There was no help for them unless they had foreswornthemselves.'

'Not foresworn themselves, my dear,' said the bishop, striving, as wasusual with him, by some meek and ineffectual word to teach his wife thatshe was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never persisted inthe lessons when he found, as was usual, that they were taken amiss.

'I say foresworn themselves!' said Mrs Proudie; 'and now what do youmean to do? This is Thursday, and of course the man must not be allowedto desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing the Sundayservices.'

'If he has been committed, my dear, and is in prison--'

'I said nothing about prison, bishop.'

'Gaol, my dear.'

'I said they committed him to gaol. So my informant tells me. But ofcourse all Plumstead and Framley set will move heaven and earth to gethim out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the diocese. I wonderhow the dean will feel when he hears of it! I do indeed. For the dean,though he is an idle, useless man, with no church principles, and noreal piety, still he has a conscience. I think he has a conscience.'

'I'm sure he has, my dear.'

'Well;--let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must be hisfeelings when he hears that this creature whom he has brought into thediocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons.'

'Not with felons, my dear; at least, I should think not.'

'I say with common felons! A downright robbery of twenty pounds, justas though he had broken into the bank! And so he did, with sly artifice,which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what are we to do?Here is Thursday, and something must be done before Sunday for the soulsof those poor benighted creatures at Hogglestock.' Mrs Proudie was readyfor the battle, and was even now sniffing the blood far off. 'I believeit's a hundred and thirty pounds a year,' she said, before the bishophad collected his thought sufficiently for a reply.

'I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to be shutup in prison,' said the bishop.

'And suppose he is not to be shut up. Suppose they have been weak, oruntrue to their duty--and from what we know of the magistrates ofBarsetshire, there is too much reason to suppose they will have been so;suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a roaringlion--among the souls of the people?'

The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs Proudie began to talk of thesouls of the people he always shook in his shoes. She had an eloquentway of raising her voice over the word souls that was qualified to makeany ordinary man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a conscientious man,and well knew that poor Mr Crawley, even, would not roar at Hogglestockto the injury of any man's soul. He was aware that this poor clergymanhad done his duty laboriously and efficiently, and he was also awarethat though he might have been committed by the magistrates, and thenlet out upon bail, he should not be regarded now, in these days beforetrial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this to Mrs Proudie wasbeyond his power. He knew well that she would not hear a word inmitigation of Mr Crawley's presumed offence. Mr Crawley belonged to theother party, and Mrs Proudie was a thorough-going partisan. I know aman--an excellent fellow, who, being himself a strong politician,constantly expressed a belief that all politicians opposed to him arethieves, child-murderers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons uponearth. He is a strong partisan, but not, I think, so strong as MrsProudie. He says that he believes all evil of his opponents; but shereally believed the evil. The archdeacon had called Mrs Proudie a she-Beelzebub; but that was a simple ebullition of mortal hatred. Hebelieved her to be simply a vulgar, interfering, brazen-faced virago.Mrs Proudie in truth believed that the archdeacon was an actual emanationfrom Satan, sent to these parts to devour souls--as she would callit--and that she herself was an emanation of another sort, sent fromanother source expressly to Barchester, to prevent such devouring, asfar as it might be prevented by a mortal agency. The bishop knew itall--understood it all. He regarded the archdeacon as a clergymanbelonging to a party opposed to his party, and he disliked the man. Heknew that from his first coming into the diocese he had been encounteredwith enmity by the archdeacon and the archdeacon's friends. If left tohimself he could feel and to a certain extent could resent such enmity.But he had no faith in his wife's doctrine of emanations. He had notfaith in many things which she believed religiously;--and yet what couldhe do? If he attempted to explain, she would stop him before he had gotthrough the first half of his first sentence.

'If he is out on bail--' commenced the bishop.

'Of course he will be out on bail.'

'Then I think he should feel--'

'Feel! Such men never feel! What feeling can one expect from aconvicted thief?'

'Not convicted yet, my dear,' said the bishop.

'A convicted thief,' repeated Mrs Proudie; and she vociferated the wordsin such a tone that the bishop resolved that he would for the future letthe word convicted pass without notice. After all she was only using thephrase in a peculiar sense given to it by herself.

'It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do the services,'suggested the bishop.

'Proper! It would be a scandal to the whole diocese. How could heraise his head as he pronounced the eighth commandment? That must be atleast prevented.'

The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his chair, moving aboutwith little movements. He knew that there was a misery coming upon him;and, as far as he could see, it might become a great misery--a hugeblistering sore upon him. When miseries came to him, as they did notunfrequently, he would unconsciously endeavour to fathom them and weighthem, and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, if he couldfind that their depth and weight were not too great for his powers ofendurance. He would let the cold wind whistle by him, putting up thecollar of his coat, and would be patient under the winter weatherwithout complaint. And he would be patient under the sun, knowing wellthat tranquillity is best for those who have to bear tropical heat. Butwhen the storm threatened to knock him off his legs, when the earthbeneath him became too hot for his poor tender feet--what could he dothen? There had been with him such periods of misery, during which hehad wailed inwardly and had confessed to himself that the wife of hisbosom was too much for him. Now the storm seemed to be coming veryroughly. It would be demanded of him that he should exercise certainepiscopal authority which he knew did not belong to him. Now, episcopalauthority admits of being stretched or contracted according to thecharacter of the bishop who uses it. It is not always easy for a bishophimself to know what he may do, and what he may not do. He may certainlygive advice to any clergyman in his diocese, and he may give it in suchform that it will have in it something of authority. Such advice comingfrom a dominant bishop to a clergyman with a submissive mind, has in itvery much of authority. But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr Crawley was nota clergyman with a submissive mind, and he feared that he himself, asregarded from Mr Crawley's point of view, was not a dominant bishop. Andyet he could only act by advice. 'I will write to him,' said the bishop'and will explain to him that as he is circumstanced he should notappear in the reading-desk.'

'Of course he must not appear in the reading-desk. That scandal must atany rate be inhibited.' Now the bishop did not at all like the use ofthe word inhibited, understanding well that Mrs Proudie intended it tobe understood as implying some episcopal command against which thereshould be no appeal;--but he let it pass.

'I will write to him, dear, tonight.'

'And Mr Thumble can go over with the letter first thing in the morning.'

'Will not the post be better?'

'No, bishop; certainly not.'

'He would get it sooner, if I write tonight, dear.'

'In either case he will get it tomorrow morning. An hour or two willnot signify, and if Mr Thumble takes it himself we shall know how it isreceived. It will be well that Thumble should be there in person as hewill want to look for lodgings in the parish.'

'But, my dear--'

'Well, bishop?'

'About lodgings? I hardly think Mr Thumble, if we decide that MrThumble should undertake the duty--'

'We have decided that Mr Thumble should undertake the duty. That isdecided.'

'But I do not think he should trouble himself to look for lodgings atHogglestock. He can go over on the Sundays.'

'And who is to do the parish work? Would you have that man, a convictedthief, to look after the schools, and visit the sick, and perhaps attendthe dying?'

'There will be a great difficulty; there will indeed,' said the bishop,becoming very unhappy, and feeling that he was driven by circumstanceseither assert his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the lawwith reference to his position as a bishop. 'Who is to pay Mr Thumble?'

'The income of the parish must be sequestrated, and he must be paid outof that. Of course he must have the income while he does the work.'

'But, my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man's income.'

'I don't believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot sequestrate, who can?But you are always timid in exercising the authority put into your handsfor wise purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man who has beenproved to be a thief! You leave that to us, and we will manage it.' The'us' named comprised Mrs Proudie and the bishop's managing chaplain.

Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which MrThumble was to carry over to Mr Crawley--and after a while he did writeit. Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some moments inhis arm-chair close by the fire-side, asking himself whether it mightnot be possible for him to overcome his enemy in this matter. How wouldit go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, and sendin a message by his chaplain to Mrs Proudie, saying that as Mr Crawleywas out on bail, the parish might be left for the present withoutepiscopal interference? She could not make him interfere. She could notforce him to write the letter. So, at least, he said to himself. But ashe said it, he almost thought that she could do these things. In thelast thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived by some power latentin her to have her will effected. But what would happen if now, evennow, he were to rebel? That he would personally become veryuncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought he could bear that. Thefood would become bad--mere ashes, between his teeth, the daily modicumof wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys would all smoke, the windwould come from the east, and the servants would not answer the bell.Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon him. He had arrived at atime in life in which such miseries make such men very miserable; butyet he thought that he could endure them. And what other wretchednesswould come to him? She would scold him--frightfully, loudly,scornfully, and worse than all, continually. But of this he had so muchhabitually, that anything added might be borne also;--if only he couldbe sure that the scoldings should go on in private, that the world ofthe palace should not be allowed to hear the revilings to which he wouldbe subjected. But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which hedreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware that the palace would knowhis misfortune, that it was known, and freely discussed by all, from theexamining chaplain down to the palace boot-boy;--nay, that it was knownto all the diocese; but yet he could smile upon those around him, andlook as though he held his own like other men--unless when open violencewas displayed. But when that voice was heard aloud along the corridorsof the palace, and when he was summoned imperiously by the woman,calling for the bishop, so that all Barchester heard it, and when he wascompelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of that summons,with distressed face, and shaking hands, and short hurrying steps--abeing to be pitied even by a deacon--not venturing to assume an air ofmasterdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on the stairs--then, atsuch moments as that, he would feel that any submission was better thanthe misery which he suffered. And he well knew that should he now rebel,the whole house would be in a turmoil. He would be bishoped here,bishoped there, before the eyes of all palatial men and women, till lifewould be a burden to him. So he got up from his seat over the fire, andwent to his desk and wrote the letter. The letter was as follows:--

THE PALACE, BARCHESTER,--December, 186-'

'REVEREND SIR,--

(he left out the dear, because he knew that if he inserted it hewould be compelled to write the letter over again).

'I have heard today with the greatest trouble ofspirit, that you have been taken before a bench ofmagistrates assembled at Silverbridge, havingpreviously been arrested by the police in yourparsonage house at Hogglestock, and that themagistrates of Silverbridge have committed you to takeyour trial at the next assizes at Barchester, on acharge of theft.

'Far be it from me to prejudge the case. Youwill understand, reverend sir, that I express noopinion whatever as to your guilt or innocence in thismatter. If you have been guilty, may the Lord give yougrace to repent of your great sin and to make suchamends as may come from immediate acknowledgement andconfession, if you are innocent, may He protect you,and make your innocence shine before all men. Ineither case may the Lord be with you and keep yourfeet from further stumbling.

'But I write to you now as your bishop, toexplain to you that, circumstanced as you are, youcannot with decency perform the church services ofyour parish. I have that confidence in you that Idoubt not that you will agree with me in this, andwill be grateful to me for relieving you from theimmediate perplexities of your position. I have,therefore, appointed Rev Caleb Thumble to perform theduties of incumbent of Hogglestock till such time as ajury shall have decided upon your case at Barchester;and in order that you may at once become acquaintedwith Mr Thumble, as will be most convenient that youshould do, I will commission him to deliver thisletter into your hand personally tomorrow, trustingthat you will receive him with that brotherly spiritin which he is sent on this painful mission.

'Touching the remuneration to which Mr Thumblewill become entitled for his temporary ministration inthe parish of Hogglestock, I do not at present laydown any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, bepaid at a rate not less than that ordinarily affordedfor a curate.

'I will once again express my fervent hope thatthe Lord may bring you to see the true state of yourown soul, and that He may fill you with the grace ofrepentance, so that the bitter waves of the presenthour may not pass over your head and destroy you.

'I have the honour to be,Reverend Sir,'Your faithful servant in Christ,'T. BARNUM'

(Baronum Castrum having been the old Roman name from which the modernBarchester is derived, the bishops of the diocese have always signedthemselves Barnum.)

The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs Proudie returned tothe study, followed by the Rev Caleb Thumble. Mr Thumble was a littleman, about forty years of age, who had a wife and children living inBarchester, and who existed on such chance clerical crumbs as might fallfrom the table of the bishop's patronage. People in Barchester said thatMrs Thumble was a cousin of Mrs Proudie's; but as Mrs Proudie stoutlydenied the connexion, it may be supposed that the people of Barchesterwere wrong. And, had Mr Thumble's wife in truth been a cousin, MrsProudie would surely have provided for him during the many years inwhich the diocese had been in her hands. No such provision had beenmade, and Mr Thumble, who had not been living in the diocese for threeyears, had received nothing else from the bishop than such chanceemployment as this which he was about to undertake at Hogglestock. He wasa humble, mild-voiced man, when within the palace precincts, and had sofar succeeded in making his way among his brethren in the cathedral cityas to be employed not unfrequently for absent minor canons in chantingthe week-day services, being remunerated for his work at the rate ofabout two shillings and sixpence a service.

The bishop handed the letter to his wife, observing in an off-hand kindof way that she might as well see what he said. 'Of course I shall readit,' said Mrs Proudie. And the bishop winced, visibly, because MrThumble was present. 'Quite right,' said Mrs Proudie, 'quite right tolet him know that you knew he had been arrested--actually arrested bythe police.'

'I thought it proper to mention that, because of the scandal,' said thebishop.

'Oh, it has been terrible in the city,' said Mr Thumble.

'Never mind, Mr Thumble,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Never mind that atpresent.' Then she continued to read the letter. 'What's this?Confession! That must come out, bishop. It will never do that you shouldrecommend confession to anybody, under any circumstances.'

'The word must come out, bishop,' repeated Mrs Proudie. 'There shouldbe no stumbling blocks prepared for feet that are only too ready tofall.' And the word did come out.

'Now, Mr Thumble,' said the lady, as she gave the letter to hersatellite, 'the bishop and I wish you to be at Hogglestock earlytomorrow. You should be there not later than ten, certainly.' Then shepaused until Mr Thumble had given the required promise. 'And we requestthat you will be very firm in the mission which is confided to you, amission which, as of course, you see, is of a very delicate andimportant nature. You must be firm.'

'I will endeavour,' said Mr Thumble.

'The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate man must notunder any circumstances be allowed to perform the services of the Churchwhile this charge is hanging over him--a charge as to the truth of whichno sane man can entertain a doubt.'

'I'm afraid not, Mrs Proudie,' said Mr Thumble.

'The bishop and I therefore are most anxious that you should make MrCrawley understand at once--at once,' and the lady, as she spoke, liftedup her hand with an eloquent violence which had its effect on MrThumble, 'that he is inhibited,'--the bishop shook in hisshoes--'inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred duties.'Thereupon, Mr Thumble promised obedience and went his way.

CHAPTER XII

MR CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY

Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage at Hogglestock. On theFriday morning, the morning of the day after his committal, Mr Crawleygot up very early, long before the daylight, and dressing himself in thedark, groped his way downstairs. His wife having vainly striven topersuade him to remain where he was, followed him into the cold roombelow with a lighted candle. She found him standing with his hat on andwith his old cloak, as though he were prepared to go out. 'Why do you dothis?' she said. 'You will make yourself ill with the cold and the nightair; and then you, and I too, will be worse than we now are.'

'We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does notsignify. Let it pass.'

'I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God forstrength, instead of seeking it in an over-indulgence of your ownsorrow.'

'Indulgence!'

'Yes, love;--indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your mind todwell on nothing for a moment but your own wrongs.'

'What else have I that I can think of? Is not all the world againstme?'

'Am I against you?'

'Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of self-indulgence youare against me--me, who for myself have desired nothing but to beallowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, andclothes to make me decent.'

'Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief? Who would know sowell as you how to teach the lesson of endurance to others? Come, love.Lay down your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go out into thewet and cold of the raw morning.'

For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take his cloakfrom him he drew back from her, and would not permit it. 'I shall findthose up whom I want to see,' he said. 'I must visit my flock, and Idare not go through the parish by daylight lest they hoot after me as athief.'

'Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to insult you.'

'Would they not? The very children in the school whisper at me. Let mepass, I say. It has not yet come to that, that I should be stopped in myegress and ingress. They have--bailed me; and while their bail lasts, Imay go where I will.'

'Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever stopped your liberty? WouldI not give my life to secure it?'

'Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand.'

'But I will go with you. I well be ready in an instant.'

'You go! Why should you go? Are there not the children for you tomind?'

'There is only Jane.'

'Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?' She stillheld him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face. 'Woman,'he said, raising his voice, 'what is that you dread? I command you totell me what it is you fear?' He had now taken hold of her by theshoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so that he might see herface, by the dim light of the single candle. 'Speak, I say. What is itthat you think I shall do?'

'Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me, thanyou can be on such a morning as this out in the cold damp air.'

'And is that all?' He looked hard at her, while she returned his gazewith beseeching loving eyes. 'It there nothing behind, that you will nottell me?'

She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied to him.She could not lie to him. 'I wish you knew my heart towards you,' shesaid, 'with all and everything in it.'

'I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would youpersuade me not to go out among my poor?'

'Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, inthe mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it tillyou will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You willstand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you, till yourlimbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled--'

'And then--?'

'Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily.'

'And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in His mercy shallsee fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare bodkin orleaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on; you need fearnothing.'

She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the house,shutting the door after him noiselessly, and closing the wicket gate ofthe garden. For a while she sat herself down on the nearest chair, andtried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in his presentstate of mind. As regarded the present morning her heart was at ease.She new that he would do now nothing of that which she had apprehended.She could trust him not to be false in his word to her, though she couldnot before have trusted him not to commit so much heavier a sin. If hewould really employ himself from morning till night among the poor, hewould be better so--his trouble would be easier of endurance--than withany other employment which he could adopt. What she most dreaded wasthat he should sit idle over the fire and do nothing. When he was soseated she could read his mind, as though it was open to her as a book.She had been quite right when she had accused him of over-indulgence inhis grief. He did give way to it till it became a luxury to him--aluxury which she would not have had the heart to deny him, had she notfelt it to be of all luxuries the most pernicious. During these longhours, in which he would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was tellinghimself from minute to minute that of all God's creatures, he was themost heavily afflicted, and was revelling in the sense of the injusticedone to him. He was recalling all the facts of life, his education,which had been costly, and, as regarded knowledge, successful; hisvocation to the Church, when in his youth he had determined to devotehimself to the service of his Saviour, disregarding promotion or thefavour of men; the short, sweet days of his early love, in which he haddevoted himself again--thinking nothing of self, but everything of her;his diligent working, in which he had ever done his very utmost for theparish in which he was placed, and always his best for the poorest; thesuccess of other men who had been his compeers, and, as he too oftentold himself, intellectually his inferiors; then of his children, whohad been carried off from his love to the churchyard--over whose graveshe himself had stood, reading out the pathetic words of the funeralservice with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart; and then of hischildren still living, who loved their mother so much better than theyloved him. And he would recall the circumstances of their poverty--howhe had been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to hidehimself, to see his chairs and tables seized before the eyes of thoseover whom he had been set as their spiritual pastor. And in it all, Ithink, there was nothing so bitter to the man as the derogation from thespiritual grandeur of his position as priest among men, which came asone necessary result from his poverty. St Paul could go forth withoutmoney in his purse or shoes on his feet or two suits to his back, andhis poverty never stood in the way of his preaching, or hindered theveneration of the faithful. St Paul, indeed, was called upon to bearstripes, was flung into prison, encountered terrible dangers. But MrCrawley--so he told himself--could have encountered all that withoutflinching. The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful would have beennothing to him, if only the faithful would have believed in him, poor ashe was, as they would have believed in him had he been rich! Even theywhom he had most loved and treated him almost with derision, because hewas now different from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him because hehad persisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead of beingconveyed in the dean's carriage; and yet, after that, he had been drivento accept the dean's charity! No one respected him. No one! His verywife thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had been publicly brandedas a thief; and in all likelihood would end his days in a gaol! Suchwere always his thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire;and his wife knew well their currents. It would certainly be better thathe should drive himself to some employment, if any employment could befound possible for him.

When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs Crawley got up from herchair, and going into the kitchen, lighted the fire there, and put thekettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her husband asthe means in the house afforded. Then she called the sleepingservant-girl, who was little more than a child, and went into her owngirl's room, and then she got into bed with her daughter.

'I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am cold.'

'Oh, mamma, poor mamma! Why is papa up so early?'

'He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers, before they go totheir work. It is better for him to be employed.'

'But, mamma, it is pitch dark.'

'Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I will sleeptoo. I think Grace will be here tonight, and then there will be no roomfor me here.'

Mr Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a portion ofthis parish nearly two miles from his house, through which was carried acanal, affording water communication in some intricate way both toLondon and Bristol. And on the brink of this canal there had sprung up acolony of brickmakers, the nature of the earth in those parts combiningwith the canal to make brickmaking a suitable trade. The workmen thereassembled were not, for the most part, native-born Hogglestockians, orfolk descended from Hogglestockian parents. They had come thither fromunknown regions, as labourers of that class do come when they areneeded. Some young men from that and neighbouring parishes had joinedthemselves to the colony, allured by wages, and disregarding the menacesof the neighbouring farmers; but they were all in appearance and mannersnearer akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural labourers.They had a bad name in the country; but it may be that their name wasworse than their deserts. The farmers hated them, and consequently theyhated the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's shop, and ahuxter's shop for their own accommodation, and were consequentlyvilified by the small old-established tradesmen around them. They gotdrunk occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did thefarmers themselves on market-day. They fought among themselvessometimes, but they forgave each other freely, and seemed to have noobjection to black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to theirwives, nor were their wives always good to them; but it should beremembered that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters,such misfortunes cannot be hidden as they may amidst the decentbelongings of more wealthy people. That they worked very hard wascertain; and it was certain also that very few of their number ever cameupon the poor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. Whoever sees a worn-out navvy?

Mr Crawley, ever since first coming into Hogglestock, had been very busyamong these brickmakers, and by no means without success. Indeed thefarmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers had so crowdedthe parish church, as to leave but scant room for decent people. 'Doothey folk pay tithes? That's what I want'un to tell me?' argued onefarmer--not altogether unnaturally, believing as he did that Mr Crawleywas paid by tithes out of his own pocket. But Mr Crawley had done hisbest to make the brickmaker welcome at the church, scandalising thefarmers by causing them to sit or stand in any portion of the churchwhich was hitherto unappropriated. He had been constant in his personalvisits to them, and had felt himself to more a St Paul with them thanwith any other of his neighbours around him.

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had givenway to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The ground under thefeet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no longerclogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk was good for ourpoor pastor, and exhilarated him; but still, as he went, he thoughtalways of his injuries. His own wife believed that he was about tocommit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with her; andyet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himself had flittedthrough his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he getreal sympathy. He would see what he could do with a certain brickmakerof his acquaintance.

'Are you here, Dan?' he said, knocking at the door of a cottage whichstood alone, close to the towing path of the canal, and close also to aforlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brick-field. Itwas now just past six o'clock, and the men would be rising, as inmidwinter they commenced their work at seven. The cottage was anunalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intendedto be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One. A voiceanswered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, to which MrCrawley replied by giving his name. Then the key was turned in the lock,and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a candle in his hand. Hehad been engaged in lighting the fire, with a view to his own breakfast.'Where is your wife, Dan?' asked Mr Crawley. The man answered bypointing with a short poker, which he held in his hand, to the bed,which was half-screened from the room by a ragged curtain, which hungfrom the ceiling half-way down to the floor. 'And are the Darvels here?'asked Mr Crawley. Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards,showing that the Darvels were still in their allotted abode upstairs.

'You're early out, Muster Crawley,' said Morris, and then he went onwith his fire. 'Drat the sticks, if they bean't as wet as the old 'unhisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They wun'tkindle for me, nohow.' But the old woman, having well noted the presenceof Mr Crawley, thought it better to remain where she was.

Mr Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began to arrangethe sticks. 'Dan, Dan,' said a voice from the bed, 'sure you wouldn'tlet his reverence trouble himself with the fire.'

'How be I to keep him from it, if he chooses? I didn't ax him.' ThenMorris stood by and watched, and after a while Mr Crawley succeeded inhis attempt.

'How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a current ofair to help it?' said Mr Crawley.

'In course not,' said the woman, 'but he be such stupid.'

The husband said no word in acknowledgement of this compliment, nor didhe thank Mr Crawley for what he had done, nor appear as though heintended to take any notice of him. He was going on with his work whenMr Crawley again interrupted him.

'How did you get back from Silverbridge yesterday, Dan?'

'Footed it--all the blessed way.'

'It's only eight miles.'

'And I footed it there, and that's sixteen. And I paid one-and-sixpence for beer and grub;--s'help me I did.'

'Dan!' said a voice from the bed, rebuking him for the impropriety ofhis language.

'Well; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv'me two bob;--just twoplain shillings by--'

'Dan!'

'And I'd 've arned three-and-six here at brickmaking easy; that's what Iwuld. How's a poor man to live that way? They'll not cotch me atBarchester 'Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Lookthere--that's what I've got for my day.' And he put his hand into hisbreeches-pocket and fetched out a sixpence. 'How's a man to fill hisbelly out of that. Damnation!'

'Dan!'

'Well, what did I say? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be halloaing atme that way? I know what I am saying of, and what I'm a doing of.'

'I wish they'd given you something more with all my heart,' saidCrawley.

'We knows that,' cried the woman from the bed. 'We is sure of that,your reverence.'

'Sixpence!' said the man, scornfully. 'If they'd have guv' me nothingat all but the run of my teeth at the public-house, I'd 've taken itbetter. But sixpence!'

Then there was a pause. 'And what have they given to me?' said MrCrawley, when the man's ill-humour about his sixpence had so farsubsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the premises.

'I tell you what, sir; for another sixpence I'd have sworn you'd neverguv' me the paper at all; and so I will now, if it bean't toolate;--sixpence or no sixpence. What do I care? D--- them.'

'Dan!'

'And why shouldn't I? They hain't got brains enough among them to winnythe truth from the lies--not among the lot of 'em. I'll swear afore thejudge that you didn't give it me at all, if that'll do any good.'

'Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if that woulddo me a service? And do you think any man was ever served by a lie?'

'Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them too much of the truth.Look at that!' And he brought out the sixpence again from hisbreeches-pocket. 'And look at your reverence. Only that they've let youout for a while, they've been nigh as hard on you as though you were oneof us.'

'If they think that I stole it, they have been right,' said Mr Crawley.

'It's been along of that chap Soames,' said the woman. 'The lordwould've paid the money out of his own pocket and never said not aword.'

'If they think that I've been a thief, they've done right,' repeated MrCrawley. 'But how can they think so? How can they think so? Have I livedlike a thief among them?'

'For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his work by them as hisemployers, he must pay hisself. Them's my notions. Look at that!'Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in thepalm of his hand.

'You believe, then,' said Mr Crawley, speaking very slowly, 'that I didsteal the money. Speak out, Dan; I shall not be angry. As you go you arean honest men, and I want to know what such of you think about it.'

'He don't think nothing of the kind,' said the woman, almost getting outof bed in her energy. 'If he' thought the like o' that in his head, I'dread 'un such a lesson he'd never think again the longest day he had tolive.'

'Speak out, Dan,' said the clergyman, not attending to the woman. 'Youcan understand that no good can come of lie.' Dan Morris scratched hishead. 'Speak out, man, when I tell you,' said Crawley.

'Drat it all,' said Dan, 'where's the use of so much jaw about it?'

'Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn't born,'said the woman.

'No; I won't--say anything of the kind,' said Dan.

'Speak out the truth,' said Crawley.

'They do say, among 'em,' said Dan, 'that you picked it up, and then gotwoolgathering in your head till you didn't rightly know where it comefrom.' Then he paused. 'And after a bit you guv' it me to get the money.Didn't you, now?'

'I did.'

'And they do say if a poor man had done it, it'd be stealing, forsartin.'

'And I'm a poor man--the poorest in all Hogglestock; and, therefore, ofcourse, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes; of course I am athief. When the world believe the worst of the poor?' Having so spoken,Mr Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of the cottage, waitingfor no further reply from Dan Morris or his wife. And as he made his wayslowly home, not going there by the direct road, but by a long circuit,he told himself there could be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even DanMorris, the brickmaker, thought that he was a thief.

'And am I a thief?' he said to himself, standing in the middle of theroad, with his hands up to his forehead.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BISHOP'S ANGEL

It was nearly nine before Mr Crawley got back to his house, and foundhis wife and daughter waiting breakfast for him. 'I should not wonder ifGrace were over here today,' said Mrs Crawley. 'She'd better remainwhere she is,' said he. After this the meal passed almost without aword. When it was over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, went up to herfather and asked him whether she should read with him. 'Not now,' hesaid, 'not just now. I must rest my brain before it will be fit for anywork.' Then he got into the chair over the fire, and his wife began tofear that he would remain there all day.

But the day was not far advanced, when there came a visitor whodisturbed him, and by disturbing him did him a real service. Just at tenthere arrived at the little gate before the house a man on a pony, whomJane espied, standing there by the pony's head and looking about forsomeone to relieve him of the charge of the steed. This was Mr Thumble,who had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor spavined brute belonging tothe bishop's stable, and which had once been the bishop's cob. Now itwas the vehicle by which Mrs Proudie's episcopal messages were sentbackwards and forwards through a twelve-miles ride round Barchester; andso many were the lady's requirements, that the poor animal by no meansate the hay of idleness. Mr Thumble had suggested to Mrs Proudie, aftertheir interview with the bishop and the giving up of the letter to theclerical messenger's charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon ofWantley, he should be glad to know--looking as he always did to 'MaryAnne and the children'--whence the price of the gig was to be returnedto him. Mrs Proudie had frowned at him--not with all the austerity offrowning which she could use when really angered, but simply with afrown which gave her some little time for thought, and would enable herto continue to rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that rebukewas needed. But mature consideration showed her that Mr Thumble'scaution was not without reason. Were the bishop energetic--or even thebishop's managing chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr Crawleymight, as Mrs Proudie felt assured, be made in some way to pay for aconveyance for Mr Thumble. But the energy was lacking, and the price ofthe gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately on thebishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs Proudie had often grievedover the necessary expenditure of episcopal surveillance, and had beenheard to declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret serviceshould be made in every diocese. What better could the EcclesiasticalCommission do with all those rich revenues which they had stolen fromthe bishops? But there was no such liberal allowance at present, andtherefore, Mrs Proudie, after having frowned at Mr Thumble for someseconds, desired him to take the grey cob. Now, Mr Thumble had riddenthe grey cob before, and would have much preferred a gig. But even thegrey cob was better than a gig at his own cost.

'Mamma, there's a man at the gate waiting to come in,' said Jane. 'Ithink he's a clergyman.'

Mr Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at once leavehis chair. Mrs Crawley went to the window, and recognised the reverendvisitor. 'My dear, it is that Mr Thumble, who is so much with thebishop.'

'What does Mr Thumble want with me.'

'Nay, my dear; he will tell you that himself.' But Mrs Crawley, thoughshe answered him with a voice intended to be cheerful, greatly fearedthe coming messenger from the palace. She perceived at once that thebishop was about to interfere with her husband in consequence of thatwhich the magistrates had done yesterday.

'Mamma, he doesn't know what to do with his pony,' said Jane.

'Tell him to tie it to the rail,' said Mr Crawley. 'If he has expectedto find menials here, as he has them at the palace, he will be wrong. Ifhe wants to come in here, let him tie the beast to the rail.' So Janewent out and sent a message to Mr Thumble by the girl, and Mr Thumbledid tie the pony to the rail, and followed the girl into the house. Janein the meantime had retired out by the back door to the school but MrsCrawley kept her ground. She kept her ground although she believed thather husband would have preferred to have the field to himself. As MrThumble did not at once enter the room, Mr Crawley stalked to the door,and stood with it open in his hand. Though he knew Mr Thumble's person,he was not acquainted with him, and therefore simply bowed to thevisitor, bowing more than once or twice with a cold courtesy, which didnot put Mr Thumble altogether at his ease. 'My name is Mr Thumble,' saidthe visitor--'the Reverend Caleb Thumble,' and he held the bishop'sletter in his hand. Mr Crawley seemed to take no notice of the letter,but motioned Mr Thumble with his hand into the room.

'I suppose you have come from Barchester this morning?' said MrsCrawley.

'Yes, madam--from the palace.' Mr Thumble, though a humble man inpositions in which he felt humility would become him--a humble man tohis betters, as he himself would have expressed it--had still about himsomething of that pride which naturally belonged to those clergymen whowere closely attached to the palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on amessage to Plumstead--could any such message from Barchester palacehave been possible--he would have been properly humble in his demeanourto the archdeacon, or to Mrs Grantly had he been admitted to the augustpresence of that lady; but he was aware that humility would not becomehim on this present mission; he had been expressly ordered to be firm byMrs Proudie, and firm he meant to be; and therefore, in communicating toMrs Crawley the fact that he had come from the palace, he did load thetone of his voice with something of the dignity which Mr Crawley mightperhaps be excused for regarding as arrogance.

'And what does the "palace" want with me?' said Mr Crawley. Mrs Crawleyknew at once there was to be a battle. Nay, the battle had begun. Norwas she altogether sorry; for though she could not trust her husband tosit alone all day in his arm-chair over the fire, she could trust him tocarry on a disputation with any other clergyman on any subject whatever.'What does the palace want with me?' And as Mr Crawley asked thequestion he stood erect, and looked Mr Thumble full in the face. MrThumble called to mind the fact, that Mr Crawley was a very poor manindeed--so poor that he owed money all round the country to butchers andbakers, and the other fact that he, Mr Thumble himself, did not owe anymoney to anyone, his wife luckily having a little income of her own;and, strengthened by these remembrances, he endeavoured to bear MrCrawley's attack with gallantry.

'Of course, Mr Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate affair atSilverbridge--'

'I am not prepared to discuss the unfortunate affair at Silverbridgewith a stranger. If you are the bearer of any message to me from theBishop of Barchester, perhaps you will deliver it.'

'I have brought a letter,' said Mr Thumble. Then Mr Crawley stretchedout his hand without a word, and taking the letter with him to thewindow, read it very slowly. When he had made himself master of itscontents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the envelope, andreturned to the spot where Mr Thumble was standing. 'I will answer thebishop's letter,' he said; 'I will answer it of course, as it is fittingthat I should do so. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or shall Isend it by course of post?'

'I think, Mr Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to undertake the duty--'

'You will not undertake the duty, Mr Thumble. You need not troubleyourself, for I shall not surrender my pulpit to you.'

'But the bishop--'

'I care nothing for the bishop in this matter.' So much he spoke inanger, and then he corrected himself. 'I crave the bishop's pardon, andyours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong feelingsI have said aught which may savour of irreverence towards his lordship'soffice. I respect his lordship's high position as bishop of thisdiocese, and I bow to his commands in all things lawful. But I must notbow to him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty before God athis bidding, unless his bidding be given in accordance with the canonsof the Church and the laws of the land. It will be my duty, on thecoming Sunday, to lead the prayers of my people in the church of myparish, and to preach to them from my pulpit; and that my duty, withGod's assistance, I will perform. Nor will I allow any clergyman tointerfere with me in the performance of those sacred offices--no, notthough the bishop himself should be present with the object of enforcinghis illegal command.' Mr Crawley spoke these words without hesitation,even with eloquence, standing upright, and with something of a nobleanger gleaming over his poor wan face; and, I think, that while speakingthem, he was happier than he had been for many a long day.

Mr Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with one foot a little inadvance of the other, with one hand folded over the other, with his headrather on one side, and with his eyes fixed on the corner where the walland ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be firm, and he wasconsidering how he might best display firmness. He thought that heremembered some story of two parsons fighting for one pulpit, and hethought also that he should not himself like to incur the scandal ofsuch a proceeding in the diocese. As to the law in the matter he knewnothing himself; but he presumed that a bishop would probably know theletter better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs Proudie was intemperateand imperious, he was aware. Had the message come from her alone, hemight have felt that even for her sake he had better give way. But asthe despotic arrogance of the lady in this case had been backed by thetimid presence and hesitating words of her lord, Mr Thumble thought thathe must have the law on his side. 'I think you will find, Mr Crawley,'said he, 'that the bishop's inhibition is strictly legal.' He had pickedup the powerful word from Mrs Proudie and flattered himself that itmight be of use to him in carrying his purpose.

'It is illegal,' said Mr Crawley, speaking somewhat louder than before,'and will be absolutely futile. As you pleaded to me that you yourselfand your personal convenience were concerned in this matter, I have madeknown my intentions to you, which otherwise I should have made knownonly to the bishop. If you please, we will discuss the matter nofurther.'

'Am I to understand, Mr Crawley, that you refuse to obey the bishop?'

'The bishop has written to me, sire, and I will make known my intentionto the bishop by a written answer. As you have been the bearer of thebishop's letter to me, I am bound to ask whether I shall be indebted toyou for carrying back my reply, or whether I shall send it by course ofpost?' Mr Thumble considered for a moment, and then made up his mindthat he had better wait, and carry back the epistle. This was Friday,and the letter could not be delivered by post till the Saturday morning.Mrs Proudie might be angry with him if he should be the cause of loss oftime. He did not, however, at all like waiting, having perceived that MrCrawley, though with language courteously worded, had spoken of him as amere messenger.

'I think,' he said, 'that I may, perhaps, best further the object whichwe must all have in view, that namely of providing properly for theSunday services in the church of Hogglestock, by taking your replypersonally to the bishop.'

'That provision is my care and need trouble no one else,' said MrCrawley, in a loud voice. Then, before seating himself at his old desk,he stood awhile, pondering with his back turned to his visitor. 'I haveto ask your pardon, sir,' said he, looking round for a moment, 'becauseby the reason of the extreme poverty of this house, my wife is unable tooffer you any hospitality which is especially due from one clergyman toanother.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Mr Thumble.

'If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it should be mentioned.'Then he seated himself, and commenced his letter.

Mr Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. Had there been no thirdperson in the room he could have sat down in Mr Crawley's arm-chair, andwaited patiently till the letter should be finished. But Mrs Crawley wasthere, and of course he was bound to speak to her. In what strain shouldhe do so? Even he, as little as he was given to indulge in sentiment,had been touched by the man's appeal to his own poverty, and he felt,moreover, that Mrs Crawley must have been deeply moved by her husband'sposition with reference to the bishop's order. It was quite out of thequestion that he should speak of that, as Mr Crawley would, he was wellaware, would immediately turn upon him. At last he thought of a subject,and spoke with a voice intended to be pleasant. 'That was theschool-house I passed, probably, as I came here?' Mrs Crawley told himthat it was the school-house. 'Ah, yes, I thought so. Have you acertified teacher there?' Mrs Crawley explained that no Government aidhad ever reached Hogglestock. Besides themselves, they had only a youngwoman whom they themselves had instructed.

'Oh, ah, yes,' said Mr Thumble; and after that Mr Thumble asked no morequestions about the Hogglestock school. Soon afterwards Mrs Crawley leftthe room, seeing the difficulty under which Mr Thumble was labouring,and feeling sure that her presence would not now be necessary. MrCrawley's letter was written quickly, though every now and then he wouldsit for a moment with his pen poised in the air, searching his memoryfor a word. But the words came to him easily, and before an hour wasover he had handed his letter to Mr Thumble. The letter was asfollows:--

'THE PARSONAGE, HOGGLESTOCK, December, 186-

'RIGHT REVEREND LORD,

'I have received the letter of yesterday's datewhich your lordship has done me the honour of sendingby the hands of the Reverend Mr Thumble, and I availmyself of that gentleman's kindness to return to youan answer by the same means, moved this to use hispatience chiefly by the consideration that in this waymy reply to your lordship's injunctions may be in yourhands with less delay than would attend the course ofthe mail-post.

'It is with deep regret that I feel myselfconstrained to inform your lordship that I cannot obeythe command which you have laid upon me with referenceto the services of my church in this parish. I cannotpermit Mr Thumble, or any other delegate from yourlordship, to usurp my place in the pulpit. I wouldnot have you think, if I can possibly dispel suchthoughts from your mind, that I disregard your highoffice, or that I am deficient in that respectfulobedience to the bishop set over me, which is due tothe authority of the Crown as the head of the churchin these realms; but in this, as in all questions ofobedience, he who is required to obey must examine theextent of the authority exercised by him who demandsobedience. Your lordship might possibly call upon me,using your voice as bishop of the diocese, to abandonaltogether the freehold rights which are now mine inthis perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, beforewhom I shall soon stand for my trial, might command meto retire to prison without a verdict given by a jury.The magistrates who committed me so lately asyesterday, upon whose decision in that respect yourlordship has taken action against me so quickly, mighthave equally strained their authority. But in nocase, in this land, is he that is subject bound toobey, further than where the law gives authority andexacts obedience. It is not in the power of the Crownitself to inhibit me from the performance of myordinary duties in this parish by any such missive asthat sent to me by your lordship. If your lordshipthink right to stop my mouth as a clergyman in yourdiocese, you must proceed to do so in anecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, andwill succeed in your object, or fail, in accordancewith the evidences as to the ministerial fitness orunfitness, which may be produced respecting me beforethe proper tribunal.

'I will allow that much attention is due from aclergyman to pastoral advice given to him by hisbishop. On that head I must first express to yourlordship my full understanding that your letter hasnot been intended to convey advice, but an order;--aninhibition, as your messenger, the Reverend MrThumble, has expressed it. There might be a casecertainly in which I should submit myself to counsel,though I should resist command. No counsel, however,has been given--except indeed that I should receiveyour messenger in a proper spirit, which I hope I havedone. No other advice has been given me, andtherefore there is now no such case as that I haveimagined. But in this matter, my lord, I could nothave accepted advice from a living man, no, not thoughthe hands of the apostles themselves had made himbishop who tendered it to me, and had set him over mefor my guidance. I am in a terrible strait. Trouble,and sorrow, and danger are upon me and mine. It maywell be, as your lordship says, that the bitter watersof the present hour may pass over my head and destroyme. I thank your lordship for telling me whither I amto look for assistance. Truly I know not whetherthere is any to be found for me on earth. But thedeeper my troubles, the greater my sorrow, the morepressing any danger, the stronger is my need that Ishould carry myself in these days with that outwardrespect of self which will teach those around me toknow that, let who will condemn me, I have notcondemned myself. Were I to abandon my pulpit, unlessforced to do so by legal means, I should in doing sobe putting a plea of guilty against myself upon therecord. This, my lord, I will not do.

'I have the honour to be, my lord,

'Your lordship's most obedient servant,'JOSIAH CRAWLEY'

When he had finished writing his letter he read it over slowly, and thenhanded it to Mr Thumble. The act of writing, and the current of thethoughts through his brain, and the feeling that in every word writtenhe was getting the better of the bishop--all this joined to a certainmanly delight in warfare against authority, lighted up the man's faceand gave to his eyes an expression which had been long wanting to them.His wife at that moment came into the room and he looked at her with anair of triumph as he handed the letter to Mr Thumble. 'If you will givethat to his lordship with an assurance of my duty to his lordship in allthings proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your pardon for thegreat delay to which you have been subjected.'

'As to the delay, it is nothing,' said Mr Thumble.

'It has been much; but you as a clergyman will feel that it has beenincumbent upon me to speak my mind fully.'

'Oh, yes; of course.' Mr Crawley was standing up, as also was MrsCrawley. It was evident to Mr Thumble that they both expected that heshould go. But he had been especially enjoined to be firm, and hedoubted whether hitherto he had been firm enough. As far as thismorning's work had as yet gone, it seemed to him that Mr Crawley had hadthe play to himself, and that he, Mr Thumble, had not had his innings.He, from the palace, had been, as it were, cowed by this man, who hadbeen forced to plead his own poverty. It was certainly incumbent uponhim, before he went, to speak up, not only for the bishop, but forhimself also. 'Mr Crawley,' he said, 'hitherto I have listened to youpatiently.'

'Nay,' said Mr Crawley, smiling, 'you have indeed been patient, and Ithank you; but my words have been written, not spoken.'

'You have told me that you intend to disobey the bishop's inhibition.'

'I have told the bishop so, certainly.'

'May I ask you now to listen to me for a few minutes?'

Mr Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes the unwonted triumphwhich had lighted them up, paused a moment, and then answered him.'Reverend sir, you must excuse me if I say no--not on this subject.'

'You will not let me speak?'

'No; not on this matter, which is very private to me. What should youthink if I went into your house and inquired of you as to those thingswhich were particularly near to you?'

'But the bishop sent me.'

'Though ten bishops sent me--a council of archbishops if you will!' MrThumble started back, appalled by the energy of the words used to him.'Shall a man have nothing of his own;--no sorrow in his heart, no carein his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him,but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop may touch it withhis thumb?'

'I am not the bishop's thumb,' said Mr Thumble, drawing himself up.

'I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to yourself.I will regard you as one of the angels of the church.' Mr Thumble, whenhe heard this, began to be sure that Mr Crawley was mad; he knew of noangels that could ride about the Barsetshire lanes on grey ponies. 'Andas much as I respect you; but I cannot discuss with you the matter ofthe bishop's message.'

'Oh, very well. I will tell his lordship.'

'I will pray you to do so.'

'And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me with such power onmy next coming as will enable me to carry out his lordship's wishes.'

'His lordship will abide by the law, as will you also.' In speakingthese last words he stood with the door in his hand, and Mr Thumble, notknowing how to increase or even maintain his firmness, thought it bestto pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride away.

'The poor man thought that you were laughing at him when you called himan angel of the church,' said Mrs Crawley, coming up to him and smilingon him.

'Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he would have taken itworse;--poor fool! When they have rid themselves of me they may put himhere, in my church; but not yet--not yet. Where is Jane? Tell her that Iam ready to commence the Seven against Thebes with her.' Then Jane wasimmediately sent for out of the school, and the Seven against Thebes wascommenced with great energy. Often during the next hour and a half MrsCrawley from the kitchen would hear him reading out, or rather saying byrote, with sonorous rolling voice, great passages from some chorus, andshe was very thankful to the bishop, who had sent over to them a messageand messenger which had been so salutary in their effect upon herhusband. 'In truth an angel of the church,' she said to herself as shechopped up the onions for the mutton-broth; and ever afterwards sheregarded Mr Thumble as an 'angel'.

CHAPTER XIV

MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND

Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her way to Allington on theMonday, and on the Tuesday morning Major Grantly received a very shortnote from Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done so. 'DearSir,--I think you will be very glad to learn that our friend MissCrawley went from us yesterday on a visit to her friend, Miss Dale, atAllington.--Yours truly, Annabella Prettyman.' The note said no morethan that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it thesatisfaction which a man always feels when he is presumed to beconcerned in the affairs of the lady with whom he is in love. And heregarded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes as a discreet and friendlywoman. Nevertheless, he was not altogether happy. The very fact thatMiss Prettyman should write to him on such a subject made him feel thathe was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of himself to be sure thathe could not give her up without making himself miserable. And yet, asregarded her father, things were going from bad to worse. Everybody nowsaid that the evidence was so strong against Mr Crawley as to leavehardly any doubt of his guilt. Even the ladies in Silverbridge werebeginning to give up his cause, acknowledging that the money could nothave come rightfully into his hands, and excusing him on the plea ofpartial insanity. 'He has picked it up and put it by for months, andthen thought that it was his own . . .' The ladies at Silverbridge couldfind nothing better to say for him than that; and when young Mr Walkerremarked that such little mistakes were the customary causes of menbeing taken to prison, the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how toanswer him. It had come to be their opinion that Mr Crawley was affectedwith a partial lunacy, which ought to be forgiven in one to whom theworld had been so cruel; and when young Mr Walker endeavoured to explainto them that a man must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and thatMr Crawley must, if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked upas a madman, they sighed, and were convinced that until the world shouldhave been improved by a new infusion of romance, and a stronger feelingof justice, Mr John Walker was right.

And the result of this general opinion made its way to Major Grantly,and made its way, also, to the archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major,in giving him his due, it must be explained that the more certain hebecame of the father's guilt, the more certain also he became of thedaughter's merits. It was very hard. The whole thing was cruelly hard.It was cruelly hard upon him that he should be brought into thistrouble, and be forced to take upon himself the armour of aknight-errant for the redress of the wrong on the part of the younglady. But when alone in his house, or with his child, he declared tohimself that he would do so. It might well be that he could not live inBarsetshire after he had married Mr Crawley's daughter. He had inheritedfrom his father enough of that longing for ascendancy among those aroundhim to make him feel that in such circumstances he would be wretched.But he would be made more wretched by the self-knowledge that he hadbehaved badly to the girl he loved; and the world beyond Barsetshire wasopen to him. He would take her with him to Canada, to New Zealand, or tosome other far-away country, and there begin his life again. Should hisfather choose to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, theywould be poor enough; but, in his present frame of mind, the major wasable to regard such poverty as honourable and not altogetherdisagreeable.

He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, with Dr Thorne and aparty who were staying in the house there, and had been talking about MrCrawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord Lufton had beenthere, and young Gresham from Greshambury, and Mr Robarts, theclergyman, and news had come among them of the attempt made by thebishop to stop Mr Crawley from preaching. Mr Robarts had been of theopinion that Mr Crawley should have given way; and Lord Lufton, whoshared his mother's intense dislike of everything that came from thepalace, had sworn that he was right to resist. The sympathy of the wholeparty had been with Mr Crawley; but they had all agreed that he hadstolen the money.

'I fear he'll have to give way to the bishop at last,' Lord Lufton hadsaid.

'And what on earth will become of his children,' said the doctor. 'Thinkof the fate of that pretty girl; for she is a very pretty girl. It willbe the ruin of her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with herwhen her father shall have been found guilty of stealing a cheque fortwenty pounds.'

'We must do something for the whole family,' said the lord. 'I say,Thorne, you haven't half the game here that there used to be in poorold Sowerby's time.'

'Haven't I?' said the doctor. 'You see, Sowerby had been at it all hisdays, and never did anything else. I only began late in life.'

The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldicotes, but when heheard what was said about Grace, his heart became sad, and he made someexcuse as to the child, and returned home. Dr Thorne had declared thatno man could allow himself to fall in love with her. But what if a manhad fallen in love with her beforehand? What if a man had not onlyfallen in love, but spoken of his love? Had he been alone with thedoctor, he would, I think, have told him the whole of his trouble; forin all the county there was no man whom he would sooner have trustedwith his secret. This Dr Thorne was known far and wide for his softheart, his open hand, and his well-sustained indifference to the world'sopinions on most of those social matters with which the world meddles;and therefore the words which he had spoken had more weight with MajorGrantly than they would have had from other lips. As he drove home healmost made up his mind that he would consult Dr Thorne upon the matter.There were many younger men with whom he was very intimate--FrankGresham, for instance, and Lord Lufton himself; but this was an affairwhich he hardly knew who to discuss with a young man. To Dr Thorne hethought that he could bring himself to tell the whole story.

In the evening there came to him a message from Plumstead, with a letterfrom his father and some present for the child. He knew at once that thepresent had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. His father mighthave written by the post, or course; but that would have given to hisletter a certain air and tone which he had not wished it to bear. Aftersome message from the major's mother, and some allusion to Edith, thearchdeacon struck off upon the matter that was near his heart.

'I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Hogglestock,' he said.'From what I hear of the evidence which came out before the magistrates,there can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you heard that thebishop sent over on the following day to stop him from preaching? He didso, and sent again on the Sunday. But Crawley would not give way, and sofar I respect the man; for, as a matter of course, whatever the bishopdid, or attempted to do, he would do with an extreme bad taste, probablywith gross ignorance as to his own duty and as to the duty of the manunder him. I am told that on the first day Crawley turned out of hishouse the messenger sent to him--some stray clergyman whom Mrs Proudiekeeps in the house; and that on Sunday the stairs to the reading-deskand pulpit were occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parsonfrom Barchester did not venture to attempt to make his way, although hewas fortified by the presence of one of the cathedral vergers and by oneof the palace footmen. As for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true.I pity Crawley from my heart. Poor, unfortunate man! The general opinionseems to be that he is not in truth responsible for what he does. As forhis victory over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better.

'Your mother particularly wishes you to come over to us before the endof the week, and to bring Edith. Your grandfather will be here, and heis becoming so infirm that he will never come to us for anotherChristmas. Of course you will stay for the new year.'

Though the letter was full of Mr Crawley and his affairs there was not aword about Grace. This, however, was quite natural. Major Grantlyperfectly well understood his father's anxiety to carry his pointwithout seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. 'My father isvery clever,' he said to himself, 'very clever. But he isn't so cleverbut one can see how clever he is.'

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on MissPrettyman; nor was he called upon to do so, as he never got as far asthat lady's house. While walking up the High Street he saw Mrs Thorne inher carriage, and, as a matter of course, he stopped to speak to her. Heknew Mrs Thorne quite as intimately as he did her husband, and liked herquite as well. 'Major Grantly,' she said, speaking out loud to him, halfacross the street; 'I was very angry with you yesterday. Why did you notcome up to dinner? We had a room ready for you and everything.'

'I was not quite well, Mrs Thorne.'

'Fiddlestick. Don't tell me of not being well. There was Emilybreaking her heart about you.'

'I'm sure, Miss Dunstable--'

'To tell you the truth, I think she'll get over it. It won't be mortalwith her. But do tell me, Major Grantly, what are we to think about thispoor Mr Crawley? It was so good of you to be one of his bailsmen.'

'He would have found twenty in Silverbridge, if he had wanted them.'

'And do you hear that he has defied the bishop? I do so like him forthat. Not but what poor Mrs Proudie is the dearest friend I have in theworld, and I'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton on herbehalf. But one likes to see one's friends worsted sometimes.'

'I don't quite understand what did happen at Hogglestock on the Sunday,'said the major.

'Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under the pump. I don'tbelieve that; but there is no doubt that when the poor fellow tried toget into the pulpit, they took him and carried him neck and heels out ofthe church. But, tell me, Major Grantly, what is to become of thefamily?'

'Heaven knows!'

'Is it not sad? And that eldest girl is so nice! They tell me that sheis perfect--not only in beauty, but in manners and accomplishments.Everybody says that she talks Greek just as well as she does English,and that she understands philosophy from the top to the bottom.'

'At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one cannot but pityher.'

'You know her, Major Grantly? By-the-by, of course you do, as you werestaying with her at Framley.'

'Yes, I know her.'

'What is to become of her? I'm going your way. You might as well getinto the carriage, and I'll drive you home. If he is sent to prison--andthey say he must be sent to prison--what is to become of them?' ThenMajor Grantly did get into the carriage, and, before he got out again,he had told Mrs Thorne the whole story of his love.

She listened to him with the closest attention; only interrupting himnow and then with little words, intended to signify her approval. He, ashe told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyesfixed upon her muff. 'And now,' he said, glancing up at her almost forthe first time as he finished his speech, 'and now, Mrs Thorne, what amI to do?'

'Marry her, of course,' said she, raising her hand aloft and bringing itdown heavily upon is knee as she gave her decisive reply.

'H--sh--h,' he exclaimed, looking back in dismay towards the servants.

'Oh, they never hear anything up there. They're thinking about the lastpot of porter they had, or the next they're to get. Deary me, I am soglad! Of course you'll marry her.'

'You forget my father.'

'No, I don't. What has a father to do with it? You're old enough toplease yourself without asking your father. Besides, Lord bless me, thearchdeacon isn't the man to bear malice. He'll storm and threaten andstop the supplies for a month or so. Then he'll double them, and takeyour wife to his bosom, and kiss her, and bless her, and all that kindof thing. We all know what parental wrath means in such cases as this.'

'But my sister--'

'As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I don't care twostraws about your sister. You must excuse me, Major Grantly, but LadyHartletop is really too big for my powers of vision.'

'And Edith--of course, Mrs Thorne, I can't be blind to the fact that inmany ways such a marriage would be injurious to her. No man wishes to beconnected with a convicted thief.'

'No, Major Grantly; but a man does wish to marry the girl that he loves.At least, I suppose so. And what man was ever able to give a moretouching proof of his affection than you can to now? If I were you, I'dbe at Allington before twelve o'clock tomorrow--I would indeed. Whatdoes it matter about the trumpery cheque? Everybody knows it was amistake if he did take it. And surely you would not punish her forthat?'

'No--no; but I don't suppose she'd think it a punishment.'

'You go and ask her then. And I'll tell you what. If she hasn't ahouse of her own to be married from, she shall be married fromChaldicotes. We'll have such a breakfast! And I'll make as much of heras if she were the daughter of my old friend, the bishop himself--I willindeed.'

This was Mrs Thorne's advice. Before it was completed, Major Grantlyhad been carried half way to Chaldicotes. When he left his impetuousfriend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared that whatshe had said should have much weight with him.

'You won't mention it to anybody,' said the Major.

'Certainly not, without your leave,' said Mrs Thorne. 'Don't you knowI'm the soul of honour?'

CHAPTER XV

UP IN LONDON

Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps remember that Miss GraceCrawley, in a letter written by her to her friend Miss Lily Dale, said aword or two of a certain John. 'If it can only be as John wishes it!'And the same reader, if there be one so kind and attentive, may alsoremember that Miss Lily Dale had declared, in reply, that 'about thatother subject she would rather say nothing,'--and then she added, 'Whenone thinks of going beyond friendship--even if one tries to do so--thereare so many barriers!' From which words the kind and attentive reader,if such a reader be in such matters intelligent as well as kind andattentive, may have learned a great deal in reference to Miss Lily Dale.

We will now pay a visit to the John in question--a certain Mr JohnEames, living in London, a bachelor, as the intelligent reader willcertainly have discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. Mr JohnEames at the time of our story was a young man, some seven or eight andtwenty years of age, living in London, where he was supposed by hisfriends in the country to have made his mark, and to be something alittle out of the common way. But I do not know that he was very muchout of the common way, except in the fact that he had some few thousandpounds left him by an old nobleman with great affection, and who haddied some two years since. Before this, John Eames had not been a verypoor man, as he filled the comfortable official position of the privatesecretary to the Chief Commissioner of the Income-Tax Board, and drew asalary of three hundred and fifty pounds a year from the resources ofthe country; but when, in addition to this source of official wealth, hebecame known as the undoubted possessor of a hundred and twenty-eightshares in one of the most prosperous joint-stock banks in themetropolis, which property had been left to him free of legacy duty bythe lamented nobleman above named, then Mr John Eames rose very highindeed as a young man in the estimation of those who knew him, and wassupposed to be something a good deal out of the common way. His mother,who lived in the country, was obedient to his slightest word, neverventuring to impose upon him any sign of parental authority; and to hissister, Mary Eames, who lived with her mother, he was almost a god onearth. To sisters who have nothing of their own--not even some specialgod for their own individual worship--generous, affectionate, unmarriedbrothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods upon earth.

And even up in London Mr John Eames was somebody. He was so especiallyat his office; although, indeed, it was remembered by many a man how rawa lad he had been when he first came there, not so very many years ago;and how they had laughed at him and played him tricks; and how he hadcustomarily been known to be without a shilling for the last week beforepay-day, during which period he would borrow sixpence here and ashilling there with energy, from men who now felt themselves to behonoured when he smiled upon them. Little stories of his former dayswould often be told of him behind his back; but they were not told withill-nature, because he was very constant in referring to the samematters himself. And it was acknowledged by everyone at the office, thatneither the friendship of the nobleman, nor that fact of the privatesecretaryship, nor the acquisition of his wealth, had made him proud tohis old companions or forgetful of old friendships. To the young men,lads who had lately been appointed, he was perhaps a little cold; butthen it was only reasonable to conceive that such a one as Mr John Eameswas now could not be expected to make an intimate acquaintance withevery new clerk that might be brought into the office. Since competitiveexaminations had come into vogue, there was no knowing who might beintroduced; and it was understood generally through theestablishment--and I may almost say by the civil service at large, sowide was his fame--that Mr Eames was very averse to the whole theory ofcompetition. The 'Devil take the hindmost' scheme he called it; andwould then go on to explain that hindmost candidates were often the bestgentlemen, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick of the flock.And he was respected the more for this because it was known that on thissubject he had fought some hard battles with the commissioner. The chiefcommissioner was a great believer in competition, wrote papers about it,which he read aloud to various bodies of the civil service--not at allto their delight--which he got to be printed here and there, and whichhe sent by post all over the kingdom. More that once this chiefcommissioner had told his private secretary that they must part company,unless the private secretary could see fit to alter his view, or could,at least, keep his views to himself. But the private secretary would doneither; and, nevertheless, there he was, still private secretary. 'It'sbecause Johnny has got money,' said one of the young clerks, who wasdiscussing this singular state of things with his brethren at theoffice. 'When a chap has got money, he may do what he likes. Johnny hasgot lots of money, you know.' The young clerk in question was by nomeans on intimate terms with Mr Eames, but there had grown up in theoffice a way of calling him Johnny behind his back, which had probablycome down from the early days of his scrapes and poverty.

Now the entire life of Mr John Eames was pervaded by a great secret; andalthough he never, in those days, alluded to the subject in conversationwith any man belonging to the office, yet the secret was known by themall. It had been historical for the last four or five years, and was nowregarded as a thing of course. Mr John Eames was in love, and his lovewas not happy. He was in love, and had long been in love, and the ladyof his love was not kind to him. The little history had grown to be verytouching and pathetic, having received, no doubt some embellishmentsfrom the imaginations of the gentlemen of the Income-Tax Office. It wassaid of him that he had been in love from his early boyhood, that atsixteen he had been engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman nowdeceased and of the young lady's parents, that contracts of betrothalhad been drawn up, and things done very unusual in private families inthese days, and that then there had come a stranger into theneighbourhood just as the young lady was beginning to reflect whethershe had a heart of her own or not, and that she had thrown her parents,and the noble lord, and the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to thewinds, and had--Here the story took different directions, as told bydifferent men. Some said the lady had gone off with the stranger andthat there had been a clandestine marriage, which afterwards turned outto be no marriage at all; others, that the stranger suddenly tookhimself off, and was no more seen by the young lady; others that heowned at last to having another wife--and so on. The stranger was verywell known to be one Mr Crosbie, belonging to another public office; andthere were circumstances in his life, only half known, which gave riseto these various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one point asto which no clerk in the Income-Tax Office had a doubt, one fact whichhad conduced much to the high position which Mr John Eames now held inthe estimation of his brother clerks--he had given this Mr Crosbie sucha thrashing that no man had ever received such treatment before andlived through it. Wonderful stories were told about that thrashing, sothat it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic in such matters,that the poor victim had only dragged on a crippled existence since theencounter. 'For nine weeks he never said a word or ate a mouthful,' saidone young clerk to a younger clerk who was just entering the office;'and even now he can't speak above a whisper, and has to take all hisfood in pap.' It will be seen, therefore, that Mr John Eames had abouthim much of the heroic.

That he was still in love, and in love with the same lady, was known toeveryone in the office. When it was declared of him that in the way ofamatory expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth to anotherwoman, there were those in the office who knew that to be anexaggeration. Mr Cradell, for instance, who in his early years had beenvery intimate with John Eames, and who still kept up the oldfriendship--although, being a domestic man, with wife and six youngchildren, and living on a small income, he did not go out much among hisfriends--could have told a very different story; for Mrs Cradell herselfhad, in the days before Cradell had made good his claim upon her, beennot unadmired by Cradell's fellow-clerk. But the constancy of Mr Eames'spresent love was doubted by none who knew him. It was not that he wentabout with his stockings ungartered, or any of the old acknowledgedsigns of unrequited affection. In his manner he was rather jovial thanotherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat luxurious life, wellcontented with himself and the world around him. But still he had thispassion within his bosom, and I am inclined to think that he was alittle proud of his own constancy.

It might be presumed that when Miss Dale wrote to her friend GraceCrawley about going beyond friendship, pleading that there were so many'barriers', she had probably seen her way over most of them. But thiswas not so; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that he had giventhe whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law of his life thatthe thing never should be abandoned as long as hope was possible. UnlessMiss Dale should become the wife of somebody else, he would alwaysregard himself as affianced to her. He had so declared to Miss Daleherself and to Miss Dale's mother, and to all the Dale people who hadever been interested in the matter. And there was an old lady living inMiss Dale's neighbourhood, the sister of the lord who had left JohnnyEames the bank shares, who always fought his battles for him, and kept aclose look-out, fully resolved that Johnny Eames should be rewarded atlast. This old lady was connected with the Dales by family ties, andtherefore had the means of close observation. She was in constantcorrespondence with John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him whenany of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way. The nature ofsome of the barriers may possibly be made intelligible to my readers bythe following letter from Lady Julia De Guest to her young friend:-

'GUESTWICK COTTAGE, December, 186-'MY DEAR JOHN,

'I am much obliged to you for going to Jones's.I send stamps for two shillings and fourpence, whichis what I owe to you. It used only to be twoshillings and twopence, but they say everything hasgot to be dearer now, and I suppose pills as well asother things. Only think of Pritchard coming to me,and saying she wanted her wages raised, after livingwith me for twenty years! I was very angry, andscolded her roundly; but as she acknowledged, she hadbeen wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did giveher two guineas a year more.

'I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday,and upon my word I think she grows prettier everyyear. She had a young friend with her--a MissCrawley--who, I believe, is the cousin I have heardyou speak of. What is this sad story about herfather, the clergyman! Mind you tell me about it.

'It is quite true what I told you about the DeCourcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and MrCrosbie is going to law with her about his wife'smoney. He has been at it in one way or the other eversince poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she hadlived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure thatour Lily will never willingly see him again, yet thetidings of her death disturbed her, and set herthinking of things that were fading from her mind. Irated her soundly, not mentioning your name, however;but she only kissed me, and told me in her quietdrolling way that I didn't mean a word of what I said.

'You can come here whenever you please after thetenth of January. But if you come early January youmust go to your mother first, and come to me for thelast week of your holiday. Go to Blackie's in RegentStreet, and bring me down all the colours in wool Iordered. I said you would call. And tell them atDolland's the last spectacles don't suit at all, and Iwon't keep them, they had better send me down, by you,one or two more pairs to try. And you had better seeSmithers and Smith, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, No 57--but you have been there before--and beg them to letme know how my poor dear brother's matters are to besettled at last. As far as I can see I shall be deadbefore I shall know what income I have to spend. Asto my cousins at the manor, I never see them; and asto talking to them about business, I should not dreamof it. She hasn't come to me since she first called,and she may be quite sure I shan't go to her till shedoes. Indeed I think we shall like each other apartquite as much as we should together. So let me knowwhen you're coming, and pray don't forget to call atBlackie's; nor yet at Dolland's, which is much moreimportant than the wool, because my eyes are gettingso weak. But what I want you specially to remember isabout Smithers and Smith. How is a woman to live ifshe doesn't know how much she has got to spend?'Believe me to be, my dear John,'Your most sincere friend,'JULIA DE GUEST.'

Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to hisoffice, and there he received the one now given to the reader. When hehad read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and then threwhimself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings communicated tohim. All the facts stated he had known before; that Lady De Courcy wasin London, and that her son-in-law Mr Crosbie, whose wife--LadyAlexandrina--had died some twelve months since at Baden Baden, was atvariance with her respecting money which he supposed to be due to him.But there was that Lady Julia's letter that was wormwood to him. LilyDale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in the old days,and who had treated her with monstrous perfidy! It was all very well forLady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see MrCrosbie again; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that itwould be so. 'The tidings of her death disturbed her'! said Johnny,repeating certain words out of the old lady's letter. 'I know theydisturbed me. I wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever venturesto show himself within ten miles of Allington, I'll see if I cannot dobetter than I did the last time I met him!' Then there came a knock atthe door, and the private secretary, finding himself to be somewhatannoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder enter inan angry voice. 'Oh, it's you, Cradell, is it? What can I do for you?'Mr Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before said, was an old ally ofJohn Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than hisfriend. In age he looked much older, and he had left with him none ofthat appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for many years tomen who are fortunate in their world affairs. Indeed it may be said thatMr Cradell was almost shabby in outward appearance, and his brow seemedto be laden with care, and his eyes were dull and heavy.

'I thought I'd just come in and ask you how you are,' said Cradell.

'I'm pretty well, thank you; and how are you?'

'Oh, I'm pretty well--in health, that is. You see one has so manythings to think of when one has a large family. Upon my word, Johnny, Ithink you've been lucky to keep out of it.'

'I have kept out of it, at any rate; haven't I?'

'Of course; living with you as much as I used to, I know the whole storyof what kept you single.'

'Don't mind about that, Cradell; what is it you want?'

'I mustn't let you suppose, Johnny, that I'm grumbling about my lot.Nobody knows better than you do what a trump I got in my wife.'

'Of course you did;--an excellent woman.'

'And if I cut you out a little there, I'm sure you never felt maliceagainst me for that.'

'Never for a moment, old fellow.'

'We all have our luck, you know.'

'Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be abachelor.'

'You may say a family,' said Cradell. 'I'm sure that Amelia does thebest she can; but we a desperately pushed sometimes--desperatelypushed. I never had it so bad, Johnny, as I am now.'

'So you said last time.'

'Did I? I don't remember it. I didn't think I was so bad then. But,Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have madearrangements with Amelia how I'm to pay you off by thirty shillings amonth--as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else.'

'I'll be shot if I do.'

'Don't say that, Johnny.'

'It's no good your Johnnying me, for I won't be Johnnyed out of anothershilling. It comes too often, and there's no reason why I should do it.And what's more, I can't afford it. I've people of my own to help.'

'But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I'm sure noone rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it had beenmyself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my solemn word andhonour if you'll let me have it this time, it shall be the last.'

'Upon my word and honour then, I won't. There must be an end toeverything.'

Although Mr Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truthof this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end had as yetcome to his friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come to his ownimportunity. 'Don't say that, Johnny; pray don't.'

'But I do say it.'

'When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn't like to got to youagain, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention hername. "I'm sure he'd do it for my sake,"' she said.

'I don't believe she said anything of the kind.'

'Upon my word she did. You ask her.'

'And if she did, she oughtn't to have said it.'

'Oh, Johnny, don't speak in that way of her. She's my wife, and youknow what your own feelings were once. But look here--we are in thatstate at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere before Igo home. I must, indeed. If you'll let me have three pounds this once,I'll never ask you again. I'll give you a written promise if you like,and I'll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out ofthe next two months' salary. I will, indeed.' And then Mr Cradell beganto cry. But when Johnny at last took out his cheque-book and wrote acheque for three pounds, Mr Cradell's eyes glistened with joy. 'Upon myword I am so much obliged to you! You are the best fellow that everlived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears of it.'

'I don't believe she'll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If Iremember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that.' Cradelladmitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then madehis way back to his own part of the office.

This little interruption to the current of Mr Eames's thoughts was, Ithink, good for the service, as immediately on his friend's departure hewent to his work; whereas, had not he been called away from hisreflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking about heraffairs probably for the rest of the morning. As it was, he really didwrite a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters addressed tohis chief, Sir Raffle Buffle, in all of which he made excellently-wordedfalse excuses for the non-performance of various requests made to SirRaffle by the writers. 'He's about the best hand at it that I know,'said Sir Raffle, one day, to the secretary; 'otherwise you may be sure Ishouldn't keep him here.' 'I will allow that he's clever,' said thesecretary. 'It isn't cleverness, so much as tact. It's what I call tact.I hadn't been long in the service before I mastered it myself; and nowthat I've been at the trouble to teach him I don't want to have thetrouble to teach another. But upon my word he must mind his p's and q's;upon my word, he must; and you had better tell him so.' 'The fact is, MrKissing,' said the private secretary the next day to the secretary--MrKissing was at that time secretary to the board of commissioners for thereceipt of income tax--'the fact is, Mr Kissing, Sir Raffle should neverattempt to write a letter himself. He doesn't know how to do it. Healways says twice too much, and yet not half enough. I wish you'd tellhim so. He won't believe me.' From which it will be seen Mr Eames wasproud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel any gratitude tothe master who assumed to himself the glory of having taught him. On thepresent occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he thoughtagain of Lily Dale, and was able to write them without interruption, asthe chairman was absent for the day at the Treasury--or perhaps at hisclub. Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered somesherry and soda-water, and stretched himself before the fire--as thoughhis exertions in the public service had been very great--and seatedhimself comfortably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and again tookout Lady Julia's letter.

As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and MrKissing had given orders that on no account should cigars be lit withinthe precincts of the Income-Tax Office. Mr Eames had taken upon himselfto understand that such orders did not apply to a private secretary, andwas well aware that Sir Raffle knew his habit. To Mr Kissing, I regretto say, he put himself in opposition whenever and wherever oppositionwas possible; so that men in the office said that one of the two must goat last. 'But Johnny can do anything, you know, because he has gotmoney.' That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed among themen.

So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked his cigar,and read his letter; or, rather, simply that paragraph of the letterwhich referred to Miss Dale. 'The tidings of her death have disturbedher, and set her thinking again of things that were fading from hermind.' He understood it all. And yet how could it possibly be so? Howcould it be that she should not despise a man--despise him if she didnot hate him--who had behaved as this man had behaved to her? It was nowfour years since this Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and hadjilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in Londonwho had heard the story. He had married an earl's daughter, who had lefthim within a few months of their marriage, and now Mr Crosbie's noblewife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply because the man was freeagain, he, John Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale's mind was'disturbed', and that her thoughts were going back to things which hadfaded from her memory, and which should have been long since banishedaltogether from such holy ground.

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr Crosbie, anything so perversely cruelas the fate of John Eames would never have yet been told in romance.That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar. I havesaid that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he wasalso ashamed of it. He acknowledged the fact of his love, and believedhimself to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for aman who had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything ofby a foolish passion. It was not four years ago--that affair ofCrosbie--and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since. Half-a-dozentimes he had made up his mind to be very stern with her; and he hadwritten somewhat sternly--but the first moment that he saw her he wasconquered again. 'And now that brute will reappear and everything willbe wrong again,' he said to himself. If the brute did reappear,something should happen of which the world would hear the tidings. So helit another cigar, and began to think what that something should be.

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in thenext room, and he knew that Sir Raffle had come back from the Treasury.There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringingof bells, and then a loud angry voice--a voice that was very harsh, andon this occasion very angry. Why had not his twelve o'clock letters beensent up to him to the West End? Why not? Mr Eames knew all about it. Whydid Mr Eames know all about it? Why had not Mr Eames not sent them up?Where was Mr Eames? Let Mr Eames be sent to him. All which Mr Eamesheard standing with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire.'Somebody has been bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all he as beenup at the Treasure today,' said Eames to himself. But he did not stirtill the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once. 'All right,Rafferty,' he said; 'I'll go just now.' Then he took half-a-dozen morewhiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fire, and opened thedoor which communicated between his room and Sir Raffle's.

The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his hand.'Eames,' said he, 'here are letters--' Then he stopped himself, andbegan upon another subject. 'Did I not give express orders that I wouldhave no smoking in the office?'

'I think Mr Kissing said something about it.'

'Mr Kissing! It was not Mr Kissing at all. It was I. I gave the ordermyself.'

'You'll find it began with Mr Kissing.'

'It did not begin with Mr Kissing; it began and ended with me. What areyou going to do, sir?' John Eames stepped towards the bell, and his handwas already on the bell-pull.

'I was going to ring for the papers, sir.'

'And who told you to ring for the papers? I don't want the papers. Thepapers won't show anything. I suppose my word may be taken without thepapers. Since you are so fond of Mr Kissing--'

'I'm not fond of Mr Kissing at all.'

'You'll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who will not